Our Father who art in thickened beans,
hallowed be thy cheese sauce, remember,
Christ erupts in the fountain, genesis
coming in silk white soured cream,
sacred’s a Crunchwrap bred in the woods,
wanders from tongue to tongue to taste
epiphany, Oh, holy Host, I took
a laxative, but kenosis isn’t any easier,
can’t empty biblical bowels of the sacraments,
bells wrung in the stillness of night,
maybe I’m out of touch, touch the hem,
touch the folds, it’s getting old,
always flying by Happy Hour,
like a hermeneutic hippo, I’m trying
to interpret Nacho Fry commercials
made for me, trying to sell me something,
trying to tell me something, some things
never change, scatological eschatology
smeared in the stall, guess I’ll crawl
over excrement to find the door,
radio’s playing even when
it’s not, lie at a four top, this is the spot
and I’m gone, singing a song of selflessness,
it’s sudden and unprovoked,
cracked like a yolk, zero point, chiasmal
outgrowth at the back of the brain,
body is a dumpster for the Eucharist,
christen me burrito man, peeling from primordial
sin, let me in when the doors close
at nine, ask a gypsy for a fiver,
for a gift, giving, giving, giving thanks
for the bounty lain at my feet,
morsels and migrants gather
at Galilee, flee, they’ll find you,
found an extra Chalupa and I’m close
to the edge, not the ledge, not
this time, this time, this time I’m sober,
Quesarito spilling in the palm of my hand,
waxing crescent growing full, full
of shit, pit of a Cinnabon smeared
over teeth, a soul with holes, fill it with bile,
don’t pity me, see, I talk to God
too much at the drive thru,
multiply loaves and lentils for the masses,
mass’s too early for me, I’ll worship inside
my head, there’s enough of us,
yes, it’s true, try not to chew
your gums, littered with dung, I say
whatever comes to mind, mind’s
unwell in a bag of walrus cum, come
closer, like this, open wide to free
what’s inside, don’t deride imagination
or hallucination, whatever’s on the menu
meant for me and a tree and I cope
with a rope, it’s a joke, I’m a punchline,
a priest and the pope walk into The Bell,
have you heard this one? Oneness
in the chamber, danger, danger Will
Robinson, toys in the bag,
red flag, fire alarm pulled,
they let them in,
let them in,
let them down,
let them fall like meat
from grill-marked cave,
small respite from hands
holding tacos that aren’t my own,
alone, I fall,
but communion
under purple
saves us all
Jake Bailey is a schizotypal experientialist with published or forthcoming work in The American Journal of Poetry, Cream City Review, Constellations, Bear Review, The Laurel Review, and elsewhere. Find him online on Twitter (@SaintJakeowitz) and at saintjakeowitz.wordpress.com.
Taco Bell Quarterly 